Fatal Cover-Up. Lisa Harris

slipped behind a line of clouds by the time she made it to her stop and climbed the long flight of stairs to the street level. She breathed in the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery nestled beneath her apartment building, wanting to turn back time to yesterday, when everything had felt normal. She’d fallen in love with the area the first time she’d visited. Ivy leaves climbed the sides of the century-old building, with its green shutters and flower boxes. Laundry blew in the breeze on a clothing line on the second story. She glanced at the glass display case in the bakery window. Flaky croissants filled with homemade custard, cannoli and her favorite, chocolate mousse on a chocolate biscuit covered in dark chocolate... She wished she could stop now and consume one; it’d be a stress reliever.

      Instead her phone rang. A wave of adrenaline rushed through her as she pulled it out of her pocket. If it was them again...

      She checked the caller ID and hesitated.

      She recognized the area code. It was someone from Texas. She opened the door to the apartment building and took the call.

      “Hello?”

      “Talia...it’s Captain Blythe.”

      She started up the narrow flight of stairs to her apartment on the fifth floor. It had been months since she’d heard from the department where her husband had once worked. “I was actually planning to call you today. It’s been a long time.”

      “Yes, it has.” There was a pause on the line. “Listen, I felt you needed to know that your husband’s case has been reopened. The gun that killed him was involved in another, more recent murder.”

      Hearing him repeat what Joe had just told her made the situation seem so much more real.

      “The FBI’s gotten involved,” he continued. “There’s an agent—”

      “Joe Bryant,” she said, finishing his sentence. “He’s with the FBI and here in Rome. I just met him.”

      “So you know about the reopened case?”

      “Yes,” said, starting for the third floor. “Can I trust him?”

      “I didn’t meet him, but the chief did and was impressed when the guy came by. He believes there were pieces of stolen art at the raid where your husband died, which is the reason the FBI is involved. The bottom line is that maybe after all this time they’ll find out who killed Thomas.”

      She was breathing harder as she took the last flight of stairs to the top floor. This was the closure she’d prayed for. They’d never been able to find the owner of the gun. Never been able to find who’d pulled the trigger and murdered Thomas.

      The case is breaking open again, God. I didn’t want to go there, but if this ends up helping me put it all behind me for good...

      That was what she needed.

      “I won’t keep you,” Captain Blythe said, interrupting her thoughts, “but if you need anything, call me.”

      She said goodbye and hung up, wondering if she should have told him about the threats. But something had made her hesitate. Joe had implied that his reopening up the case had prompted someone to come after the paintings. But did that mean that someone else—someone inside the department—had been involved in Thomas’s death?

      She pulled out her key and opened the front door to her apartment loft, trying to make sense of everything. The implications of the matching bullets, the text messages and inconsistencies she’d seen with the case... The man she’d married never would have been involved in stealing evidence, but she’d never been able to get anyone to listen to her. And eventually she’d come to accept that Thomas wasn’t the person she’d known all those years.

      Inside the one-bedroom apartment, the space was a small, open layout with a cozy terrace and views of the neighboring rooftops and monuments in the distance. But it wasn’t the familiar layout of home that caught her attention as she stepped into the room. Someone had been here. Talia felt a sick feeling wash over her, along with a wave of panic. Books had been pulled down from their shelves, red couch cushions and half a dozen throw pillows lay scattered across the hardwood floor, while her artwork had been ripped from the walls. She picked up the shattered glass frame holding the photo of her with her parents and little sister that had been taken before her mom and dad had been killed in a car wreck.

      Who had done this?

      Wind blew through the open terrace door, causing the white sheer curtains she’d picked up at a local flea market to flutter in the breeze. Something clattered against the floor in the bedroom. She froze beside the kitchen counter. Whoever had trashed her house was still here. Without thinking, she set down the photo, grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen counter and started for her bedroom.

      When she stepped through the doorway, he was going through her dresser—the same man who’d grabbed her bag outside the Colosseum. Her intrusion into the room seemed to startle him for a second, then he pulled a gun out of its holster and pointed it at her.

      “You should have shown up with the paintings,” he said in English with a thick Italian accent. “Toss me your bag.”

      She hesitated, then threw it at him, still holding the knife. But the blade would be useless against a man with a loaded gun. He dumped the contents on her bed, scattering them across the dark blue bedspread.

      She gripped the handle of the knife between her fingers.

      “They’re not here,” he said, rummaging through her things. “The paintings. Where are they?”

      “I don’t have them.” Talia fought to keep her voice steady. “I never did.”

      He shook his head as if trying to figure out his next move. Light streamed in from the bedroom window. The man was in his mid-to-late twenties. Brown eyes. Dark hair with a streak of blond across his bangs.

      He took a step forward. “I was told you’d say that. You knew you couldn’t fence the art right after your husband’s death, so you decided to be patient and wait to sell them.”

      She shook her head. “Who told you that?”

      “It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I wouldn’t cross the person I work for. They were involved in the death of your husband, they’ll kill again if they have to.”

      “Over a piece of art?” She pressed her lips together, trying to fight the panic. But that wasn’t the only thing that sent a chill through her. He knew who’d killed her husband.

      The intruder didn’t answer her question. But he didn’t have to.

      “I don’t have them,” she repeated.

      “And I said I don’t believe you. They were in your husband’s personal items, which were later given to you by the police.”

      As he moved to the smaller bedside table, his gun still pointed in her direction, another memory surfaced. A few weeks after Thomas had died someone had broken into their house while she’d been out visiting with a friend. The only things that had been taken were a few pieces of her jewelry. At the time, she’d thought it was nothing more than a random break-in, but now... What if there was another explanation? What if the thief had been looking for something specific, like three valuable paintings?

      But she didn’t have them. Or did she? Her mind raced. The days after Thomas’s death were still a blur, but she’d told Joe the truth. She’d given most of her husband’s personal things to her mother-in-law in an attempt to get rid of the memories. And while the paintings Joe had shown her seemed vaguely familiar, she wasn’t sure what she might have done with them. Could they really be there?

      She eyed the gun that still pointed at her as the attacker continued searching. She needed to get someone’s attention. The balcony door to her bedroom was open. She could scream. Mrs. Lamberti from downstairs wouldn’t hear her—the woman was almost deaf—but someone else might catch her cry for help.

      She started toward the door, but the man shifted at the